place. Same vermin!!!
‘. . . they also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way.’
The Glasgow Marshals.
Not like Johnson. The phrase reverberated across the page. Same foaming rage as the first letter and with a clear warning of impending violence of a tougher, scarier order
altogether . They already had someone lined up for a pasting. It confirmed we had some evangelists on the loose with inflated ideas of their own rectitude and a taste for Old Testament
justice. The sort of thing you’d expect from a son of Abraham.
SEVEN
I had the letter inside my jacket pocket on Sunday morning. Unlike a week ago, I was less jaunty climbing the hill to the infirmary. Morag and I
had jived until my shirt was soaked and the very walls of the Locarno were running with the condensed breath of a thousand manic dancers. I’d known cooler nights in North Africa. She seemed
to have inexhaustible energy: the transient gift of the young. The converse also being true: this morning my legs were feeling every one of their thirty-four years. I’d revived enough to see
her home and participate in some sweaty entanglements in her close. But as well as finding myself too old for the jigging, it dawned on me that I was too old for close-quarter combat in a squalid
entry. Next time I might just stick to the flicks. Hollywood has a job keeping up with demand in Glasgow. Or maybe take her to one of the comedy shows. I’d heard Alec Finlay was good.
Sitting in my vest and pants at three in the morning, that cut-your-wrists time after jolting awake from troubled sleep, I had come to the melancholy realisation that I was getting past it. I
needed a wife. Someone to come home to and listen to my rants about my working day. To share a laugh with, listening to Tommy Handley and his ITMA pals on the wireless. Someone I could hand my
wage-packet to and get pocket money for a pint and fags in return. To calm me in the night with soothing hands when the mortar shells came crashing through my dreams. I don’t know what
depressed me more: realising I’d reached the pipe-and-slippers stage, or wanting it.
I limped along the dark brown corridors and pushed into the ward. The Sister just nodded. She looked weary too, sagging. Only her starched cap was stiff.
‘Bed seven on the right. Gibson. The polis have already been,’ she said and stood aside.
Her mood chilled me. How bad could this be? I walked on and into the ward. There were eight beds either side. All filled. A busy night in the emergency room. But what was special about bed
seven? Then I saw him. He could have been stolen from the Egyptian collection at the Kelvingrove Museum. Only a strip over his eyes and mouth was uncovered. His shoulders and arms were swathed in
bandages. I felt the gaze of the rest of the patients follow me as if they knew what the attraction was and were curious to see how I’d react. I got to his bedside. His eyes were closed.
‘Hello? Mr Gibson?’ I tried. ‘Anybody in there?’
At first nothing, then his eyelids flickered and snapped open. He looked terrified. As much as you could judge from just two brown pools.
‘Hello, Mr Gibson,’ again. ‘I’m from the Gazette . The name’s Brodie. Can you talk? Can you tell me what happened?’
The man in the bandages turned his head away and then pulled back. I saw his eyes squint in pain. He flexed his lips and licked them.
‘Fuck. Off.’
Which in the circumstances seemed fair comment.
‘Look, I’m sorry, pal. I can see you’re in a lot of pain. All I want is a couple of words about what happened last night. Did someone do this to you?’
His eyes glared at me. His lips curled. He cleared his throat. ‘You might say that. You might well say that. Cunts!’
I took out my pad and pencil. Folk always felt obliged to help me fill the blank page. ‘What did these – folk – do to you? Beat you up? You were on your way home after
shutting time, I expect . . .’
He
‘. . . they also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way.’
The Glasgow Marshals.
Not like Johnson. The phrase reverberated across the page. Same foaming rage as the first letter and with a clear warning of impending violence of a tougher, scarier order
altogether . They already had someone lined up for a pasting. It confirmed we had some evangelists on the loose with inflated ideas of their own rectitude and a taste for Old Testament
justice. The sort of thing you’d expect from a son of Abraham.
SEVEN
I had the letter inside my jacket pocket on Sunday morning. Unlike a week ago, I was less jaunty climbing the hill to the infirmary. Morag and I
had jived until my shirt was soaked and the very walls of the Locarno were running with the condensed breath of a thousand manic dancers. I’d known cooler nights in North Africa. She seemed
to have inexhaustible energy: the transient gift of the young. The converse also being true: this morning my legs were feeling every one of their thirty-four years. I’d revived enough to see
her home and participate in some sweaty entanglements in her close. But as well as finding myself too old for the jigging, it dawned on me that I was too old for close-quarter combat in a squalid
entry. Next time I might just stick to the flicks. Hollywood has a job keeping up with demand in Glasgow. Or maybe take her to one of the comedy shows. I’d heard Alec Finlay was good.
Sitting in my vest and pants at three in the morning, that cut-your-wrists time after jolting awake from troubled sleep, I had come to the melancholy realisation that I was getting past it. I
needed a wife. Someone to come home to and listen to my rants about my working day. To share a laugh with, listening to Tommy Handley and his ITMA pals on the wireless. Someone I could hand my
wage-packet to and get pocket money for a pint and fags in return. To calm me in the night with soothing hands when the mortar shells came crashing through my dreams. I don’t know what
depressed me more: realising I’d reached the pipe-and-slippers stage, or wanting it.
I limped along the dark brown corridors and pushed into the ward. The Sister just nodded. She looked weary too, sagging. Only her starched cap was stiff.
‘Bed seven on the right. Gibson. The polis have already been,’ she said and stood aside.
Her mood chilled me. How bad could this be? I walked on and into the ward. There were eight beds either side. All filled. A busy night in the emergency room. But what was special about bed
seven? Then I saw him. He could have been stolen from the Egyptian collection at the Kelvingrove Museum. Only a strip over his eyes and mouth was uncovered. His shoulders and arms were swathed in
bandages. I felt the gaze of the rest of the patients follow me as if they knew what the attraction was and were curious to see how I’d react. I got to his bedside. His eyes were closed.
‘Hello? Mr Gibson?’ I tried. ‘Anybody in there?’
At first nothing, then his eyelids flickered and snapped open. He looked terrified. As much as you could judge from just two brown pools.
‘Hello, Mr Gibson,’ again. ‘I’m from the Gazette . The name’s Brodie. Can you talk? Can you tell me what happened?’
The man in the bandages turned his head away and then pulled back. I saw his eyes squint in pain. He flexed his lips and licked them.
‘Fuck. Off.’
Which in the circumstances seemed fair comment.
‘Look, I’m sorry, pal. I can see you’re in a lot of pain. All I want is a couple of words about what happened last night. Did someone do this to you?’
His eyes glared at me. His lips curled. He cleared his throat. ‘You might say that. You might well say that. Cunts!’
I took out my pad and pencil. Folk always felt obliged to help me fill the blank page. ‘What did these – folk – do to you? Beat you up? You were on your way home after
shutting time, I expect . . .’
He
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